Smell of the Greasepaint, Roar of the Crowd
by Cat7
Summary: Frank is working for Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show but he's not a happy man.
1. Default Chapter

I would like to say a huge thank you to the people who have kindly left me feedback for "Lost". It is very much appreciated.

I would also like here to thank my beta-reader, KC, for her work in encouraging me to keep going. Her kind words are also hugely appreciated.

This story is a sequel to "Lost", and assumes that the reader will be aware of the events of that story, especially the way they have shaped Frank's emotional life. However, if you have not read the previous story, it should be enough to know that he is not a happy man, and misses someone very dear to him more than he is willing to admit, even to himself.

Disclaimer: I do not in any way lay claim to these characters, created as they were by people far more talented than myself. And lucky to have a certain actor interpret their characters. (Does that sound jealous? No, I thought not.) I am making no profit whatever from the telling of this story. If anything, I suspect it's costing me money 

Enough said. A short first chapter. More to follow.

The Smell of the Greasepaint, the Roar of the Crowd.

Frank surfaced round about midday. He was lying half on, half off his camp bed and his hips hurt. His hand still cradled the empty bottle of tequila he had sunk last night. Only way to escape. Only way to sleep.

Someone was in the tent with him. It was supposed to be his tent, but people wandered in and out of there, he was never sure why. His stuff had disappeared long ago, into the chaos that was the show.

He groaned and turned half over.

"You awake now, Hop?" Phoebe Ann looked him over, her expression as serious as ever. "You ready to do some rehearsin'? Your horse is a better time-keeper than you."

He didn't bother to reply. She'd said what she wanted to say and he knew she'd leave him be now, to get some sort of grip on the day.

A half hour later he stood, costumed as the good guy, with his overlarge white hat and his pretty shirt that someone had embroidered just for him. Underneath the white he felt filthy and hungover and he had a bad feeling that everyone knew the white was a lie.

Hidalgo didn't make him feel any better. His horse was in great shape, lean, muscled and fit, looked after by wranglers who knew their business. And Hidalgo knew his, too, knew his marks and how many times he had to go round the ring, and just where to stop. Frank hadn't quite worked out if his horse pitied him or mocked him. He was beginning to care less and less which it was.

He sighed. Someone was shouting some instructions to him and he followed them, riding around, sitting tall in the saddle like he really meant it for once. When he was done there was no one there to applaud him yet. They would, those people who paid out their dollars to be entertained by the travesty; they would shout and cheer and throw coins into the dust. If he'd been sober, he'd have told them it wasn't like that, not even when he'd told his stories. But he wasn't, and he didn't even try any more. The truth was what Buffalo Bill said it was. Simple.

He returned to his cot. Someone had put a new bottle of tequila within reach and it was enough to blur the edges of the time before the show. People came and went, around him, beside him. Someone put a plate of food in his hand, even stayed while he ate. Then he was pushed into the limelight, did his stuff and he was applauded. The hero. The man who defeated the bad guys. Yeah. Good old Frank.

As he slipped into the helpless darkness again, his hand on the bottle, he heard someone wish him good night. He had no idea who.

TBC


	2. Chapter2

Disclaimer: as ever, the characters are not mine.

Part 2

About a week later, the whole shebang was setting up house in some town beginning with B, or possibly V. Frank knew he'd recognise the name if only someone would tell him what it was. He was with the gang who were pitching the tents, throwing his back into the work like he usually did, and the guys he was helping laughed with him when he told them one of his taller tales.

Then Buffalo Bill came around, saw what he was doing and told him to save his energies.

"I don't pay you good money to do some no account job, Frank. Go and feed your horse. He'll get so he doesn't know who you are."

The good humour evaporated as he did as he was told. Being with Hidalgo just wasn't what it used to be. He knew his horse didn't like travelling in the pen on the train, and hated being fenced in when there was free country to roam just beyond the fence posts. But Cody was right. He needed some time with Hidalgo.

His horse greeted him, running to the fence and putting his head over. Frank rubbed his horse's nose, and pulled gently at his forelock. Usually, they'd have a few words, so to speak, and then Hidalgo would get a treat, something Frank had saved for him. But this time he had nothing to say and nothing to give. His horse was in good shape, no thanks to his efforts.

He stepped back, trying to think through the haze that seemed to permanently slow him down. Was this the end of the road? After all the races, the wins, the fun and adventure they had both loved, was this all? A two-bit show, a dusty piece of fenced ground and a tent that kept out nothing but the fresh air.

It was too much to consider. He needed a drink and, since no one had thought to give him any, he wandered away to see what he could find.

The town was one street wide but busy pretending it was much grander than that. Every man jack of those buildings had a sham upper storey, some looking like a strong breeze would throw it into main street. The claims of the huge clumsy signs, to "the best drink this side of the Rockies" and "the quickest haircut in the state" made Frank grim. A saloon, a cheap one, that's what he needed, because the coins in his jeans pocket weren't exactly weighing him down. He chose one at the far end of town and went in.

Inside, it was dim, a little cooler than the street but not much, and there were three customers, all leaning against the bar, sharing the same bottle. Frank dug in his pocket and slapped a couple of coins on the wooden bar which was puddled with beer drips. He pointed out what he wanted.

"Not enough, mister," the barkeep said, eyeing him. "Prices went up yesterday."

"That so?" Frank said, knowing full well the reason for the raise. "What if I was to tell you I'm Frank T.Hopkins, winner of more'n a fifty long distance races, and I'm the star of that show."

"Wouldn't make no difference, anyways, you're not Frank T. I saw him once, he was a head taller and he didn't wear workman's clothes, neither. A bottle's another dollar on top of what you got there."

Maybe one time, Frank would have argued the point. Now, he needed the drink and he had the money, so he dug in his pocket again, made up the dollar out of some small change and grabbed the bottle. He stepped back into the sunshine, paused, and decided a trip round the back of the premises would be a good idea. Once done there, he sauntered back along the alley and found himself crowded by the three men who had been standing at the bar. They looked bigger now they were filling the alley. Frank began to look round for something he could use to defend himself, since his gun had no live rounds in it. Thanks, Phoebe Ann, for making sure he had no live ammunition, just to keep the audience safe. Wasn't going to keep him safe now, was it.

"Frank T. Hopkins, huh?" one of the men said. "You in that show then?"

Maybe they were wanting his autograph, he thought in a mad moment of hope. He nodded to the poster someone had stuck up on the wall of the saloon. There he was, at the bottom, on Hidalgo, and mighty pretty he looked, too. Only he really couldn't say it looked a whole lot like him.

"That's me," he said, knowing he sounded less than convincing. "And yeah, I'm in the show. Now, if you don't mind, gentlemen, I need to get back to do some rehearsin'."

"You don't ride that horse," another of the three said. Dark haired, thick set and mean eyed, he was someone Frank guessed could handle himself in a fight.

"No? Well, maybe not. Come to the show tonight, then you'll see. White hat, painted horse, that's me and Hidalgo. I can give you the best seats in the house."

"You can? Well, maybe we ain't all that interested," dark-hair said, taking a step closer. "But if you're the star of that show, I bet you're carrying some money around. You didn't make a fuss about another dollar for that drink. Hand it over."

Frank's heart began to pound. He might have taken on three, a few months ago, before his arm had been broken and he'd kinda lost direction after, well, before he joined Cody's show. Now, he'd be up against it. But he tried, nonetheless, and wasn't losing too much when Cody himself, in full wig and with his gun in his hand, came to his rescue.

"Boys," Cody said, firing once close enough to dark-hair to crease his leg. "Let the man alone. He has to do a show tonight. Come on, Frank, pick up your bottle and head on home. And fix your face – can't have a hero looking like you do."

The men backed down. There was no doubt who Cody was, and his skill with the revolver he held was enough to make the men leave Frank alone. He sat, hand to his bleeding nose, his long legs stretched in front of him. He looked up at Cody and smiled ruefully.

"They didn't believe I was Frank Hopkins," he said.

Cody said nothing, for which Frank was grateful. Frank got to his knees.

"I can make it now," he said, as Cody still watched him. With a nod, the other man stood back but did not leave him.

"I'm sure you can. I need to talk to you."

Frank felt his heart speed. He had known Cody a long time, and he knew the man had been patient with an old friend. What if he was being shown the road?

He stood and let Cody lead the way.

"I think you could give the drink a little less of your attention, Frank. You and Hidalgo are a good draw. I don't want to lose you."

He wasn't quite being fired, then. Just a kind of rehearsal for it. He nodded his acknowledgement of Cody's attempt to help him, though Cody had ignored the fact that the beating had left him at less than his best. Then he reflected that Cody would have had trouble finding a time when he was clear-headed.

Cody managed some more encouraging words before he left Frank to find his own way back to his tent.

It took a while to stop his nose bleeding, and he felt it carefully. It wasn't broken. But his eye was swelling, despite the wet cloth he held to it, and he couldn't stop his tongue exploring his teeth. One of them seemed looser than it should be. He looked at himself in the scratched little mirror he stared in when he put the white greasepaint on. Tonight, he was going to need a little more than usual. It didn't matter. The whole thing had been a mistake, and he'd learn from it. Stay with the show. No mixing with the locals. Let them pay to see him and applaud him when he was done. He was through with the real world.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: As ever, I do not own Frank or Hidalgo, and I make no profit from this writing.

One more show, and he was trying hard to leave the bottle alone. Phoebe Ann dropped by and saw him putting the full bottle under his cot.

"Too close, Hop. You can still reach it when you're lying on that bed."

"You made sure I didn't have any this morning, didn't you," Frank stated, trying to banish thoughts of the first drink from his mind.

"You've been leaning on it a little heavy lately, Hop. You know that. It ain't sociable no more."

Frank turned the cloth he was holding, trying to find a cold spot. His head was throbbing and the air seemed too heavy to breathe. He didn't know what to say to her. She was right – the bottle was becoming his friend.

"Take it," he said, pressing the cloth to his eye.

"Sorry, but this is something you do for yourself. But how about I treat you to some home cooking. If you get any leaner, I'm going to have to take your costume in and I reckon it's easier to cook for you than to sew. I have a good beef steak for that eye, too."

He'd be a fool to turn down an offer like that and he was no fool. An hour later he was pushing back his plate and easing his belt. He looked round her tent, grander than his own and full of womanly touches. She might shoot like a man, but she made a place a home as well as any woman. She had managed to get a few truths out of him, too.

"Hop, I do believe you look a little less peaked. But that's one hell of a shiner you're going to have tomorrow. Damn this weather – it's hotter'n hell in here."

That might have been a cue to change into something more comfortable. But that wasn't Phoebe Ann's way. She had no designs on Frank, and he felt all the more secure with her because of that. He had his reasons, she had hers, and they left it at that.

"Are we movin' on soon? This is the back end of nowhere. I thought we was headed somewhere worth visitin'." Frank eased himself back in his chair, content for the first time in a while just to sit and chat. The tequila bottle had slipped to the back of his mind.

"Day after tomorrow. One more show, then back to that train."

"I like the train better. Air's movin'. And a good game of cards passes the time pretty well."

"You lost much money to Texas Jack lately? I swear, you get through your money faster'n any man I know."

"No reason to hold onto it. Might as well pass it on to the next man – maybe they can make better use of it than me." Frank raised his eyebrows as Phoebe Ann looked at him. There was truth in his statement but it was not a whole truth.

"Well, maybe. But you earned it. Maybe you ought to try keeping hold of a little more of it."

"You're full of good advice tonight, ma'am," Frank said, and it was an honest piece of admiration, not a sarcastic comment.

"I know. Ain't like me at all. Now, you go on back where you should be. I guess enough people here now know you've been visitin'. I don't want them thinkin' what they'll be thinkin' if you stay any longer."

Frank didn't want to go back to being on his own. The temptation of the bottle would have no counterbalancing weight of conviction that he should leave it alone. But she was holding the flap of the tent open, inviting anyone who passed by the opportunity to see that everything was above board, so he had no choice.

He was lucky that night. By the time he got back to his tent, his full bottle had become a half-empty bottle, courtesy of a couple of visiting friends. One small slug hadn't led to any more, because the good food, and the easing power of a good steak left him sleepily aware that he had had enough for one day. He pulled off his boots, lay back and let himself sleep.

The next day was hotter than ever, and angry-looking clouds were beginning to build on the horizon. Frank got himself some breakfast, food not drink, and was half-hoping someone might relieve him of the rest of the tequila. He wasn't feeling too bad, considering he hadn't had a drink in the better part of thirty-six hours. In fact, he was beginning to think straight and not sure he liked the feeling of that.

The afternoon runround went better than usual, with Hidalgo pulling off a couple of neat tricks, Frank fully in control to help him remember them, and everyone applauded – the people that counted, that is, the people in the show. He was patted on the back, and invited to a party or two after the evening's performance, which made him feel a little more like his old self.

By the evening, the still air was beginning to stir and the distant thunder, which had been grumbling all day, came a lot closer. But they still had an audience, some folks who had come in from aways off, in wagons and on horseback, and though the benches weren't full they couldn't let the people down. So Cody went through his repertoire of fanciful interpretations of the recent past and Frank performed his heart out, trying to see faces in the gathering dark. He had sworn off the real world but he still wanted to know who was applauding him. At least that night he deserved it.

But he was back at the bottle within a few minutes, having witnessed just what Cody thought happened at Little Big Horn. He'd known what Cody was doing all along but it had never been so clear to him before. His own stories, well, they went to a good story round the way of the truth, but what did that matter? He was telling the truth of what happened; Cody wasn't even close. As for the re-telling of Wounded Knee, he could hardly believe he'd been able to stand for it; the lies, the perversion of justice and decency, offended Frank in a way he had not really noticed. So maybe the bottle was best after all.

Then, as they say in the story-books, the heavens opened.

Hail. He had reason to remember hail, and the first time he had met a woman he wanted. Then, it had drawn them together. Now, it was hard, and biting, and dangerous, the clods of ice as large as a child's fist, sending everyone running for shelter more substantial than canvas. There wasn't much – just a space under the seating, which was raised on wooden ramps, and on his way there Frank almost stepped on two children huddled together under a coat. A man lay close by, knocked cold by the hail, and the children were crying loud enough to be heard under the onslaught of ice.

Frank tried to right himself but had pulled aside so suddenly he couldn't keep his feet and fell awkwardly, a thudding crash which frightened the children into screaming. He cursed the drink. He couldn't think straight, command himself to be useful and his brain was only telling him to get away, to save himself.

With a huge effort of will he got to his knees and reached for the smaller of the two children. She kicked and scratched at him, forcing foul words from his mouth but he managed to grab her and stood, putting her on his hip and taking the older boy by the hand. He led them down, into a fast-flowing stream of water which coursed across the ground and then along to the end of the stand. He tucked them under the boards, into relative safety and stood, taking the blows from the ice on his back without caring. He climbed back up to the man, who lay on his belly, blood on his forehead, and Frank unsteadily pulled him until he could get a shoulder under him. As he lifted him, the falling ice ceased as suddenly as it had begun, and Frank looked up. He knew that noise. Twister. Close. Nothing to do now but get the man to his children and run for Hidalgo. He wanted something, but not here, not in the mud of the show. Out there, on the prairie, that's where he would look for what he wanted.

He walked as fast as he dared with his burden, aware that the huge grey funnel was lapping at the earth on the horizon. He heard the children's cries and put the man on the ground, then pulled him by his boots into the dark recess under the seats. If the twister hit, the wood gave little protection but at least they looked safer. There were several other adults crouched there. They'd be able to look after the little family.

Then he ran, as fast as the mud would let him, to the corrals where the horses milled and screamed their panic. Hidalgo ran straight to him and he opened the gate for him, leaping onto his slick, bare back and grasping his mane. The other horses in the corral ran by, making Hidalgo skittish, but he settled when Frank leaned down, patting his reassurance. Then let Hidalgo run. He did little to guide him. They both had the same thought – away from there. Maybe it wasn't the most sensible thing to do; but it was what he had wanted to do and in his frame of mind that is what had counted.

Hell roiled above him yet it was comforting to be with this horse, chasing across the prairie as he had done as a boy, and the air and adrenaline cleared the alcohol from his mind. He eased Hidalgo into a canter and looked behind him. The funnel danced, as if playing with the ground. It dodged near the town, then away, then caught at an outlying building which exploded at the touch, sending fragments of itself spinning into the sky.

Frank pulled up and dismounted, and stood holding his horse's head, waiting to learn their fate. The tornado jinked again, tearing at the town in another place then rushing away, leaving everything else untouched. It skirted Frank warily, and he hung on to Hidalgo as they weathered the cutting wind and rain. Then it was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: As ever, only one or two of the characters are mine. I make no money from this writing.

It took no more than half an hour for the storm to pass through and the sun to come out, hot and strong. Frank walked away then felt the soreness in his back from the pummelling of the hail and stopped, wanting to ride again, but he checked Hidalgo out first. A couple of cuts, nothing too bad. He seemed sound. He jumped on his mustang's back, grateful the horse was smaller than some, and kneed him forward.

He headed for town, unsure he could offer help that would be accepted. Already the people were out, trying to gather possessions from the mud, small knots of colour in a brown world. As he trotted forward he saw a woman standing, watching him and for a moment his heart lurched. But it was Phoebe Ann, sensible, dependable Phoebe Ann, and judging by the look of her she was mad with him. She looked out for him most of the time, but most of the time she was mad with him about something.

He slid off Hidalgo and waited for her.

"Hop! What'd you do a fool thing like that for? You could have gotten yourself killed!" Hands on hips, she reminded him of his mother, who had had occasion to tell him off from time to time. He felt a little foolish about his wild scheme to – well, whatever it was he had thought he was doing, running off on his horse like that.

"I'm here, ain't I? You're bleeding, Phoebe Ann. You need a doc."

"I am?" She put her hand to her head as if she suddenly realised she felt some pain there.

Frank stepped forward, ready to help her, and she unexpectedly fainted, catching him a little off guard so that he almost dropped her. He carried her to the nearest building, which happened to be the saloon. Clumps of bedraggled people sat at tables, drinking coffee and talking animatedly about what had happened. The place was untouched by the twister.

He carried Phoebe Ann to a chair and set her on it since he could feel her coming around, the strength coming back into her limbs and her voice. He pulled his sopping neckerchief from his neck and tried to wipe some of the blood from her face. She had a bad cut to her forehead. She was trying to bat his hand away when someone came over.

"You want some help with that, son?" A man stood by him, black coat and bag proclaiming his profession. He gave Phoebe Ann over to his care, ashamed that he was so grateful for the help. His hands were shaking. He grabbed a half-bottle of something and walked out, leaving someone else to look after her.

He went to find something else he could do that didn't involve anyone he cared about.

He had wanted something out there, on the prairie, something he could not even name to himself. But someone had made another choice for him and he was going to have to find a way to live with that.

Hidalgo waited for him, and snorted when Frank began to speak to him. 

"You got any ideas what to do next, bronco? I don't feel like I know any more." He ran his hand down Hidalgo's back, searching for sore spots. It was soothing, doing just that, but he only felt guilt that he'd not been looking after his horse himself for too long. He stopped to take a pull from the bottle in his hand but Hidalgo stepped suddenly closer, shouldering him hard and he dropped the bottle. The liquor pulsed out onto the dust.

"Fool horse! What did you do that for? I ain't drunk yet." He reached down but Hidalgo wasn't letting him reach it. Any minute now and he'd end up in the dust himself. "All right, all right. Come on, let's go see about helping someone."

He walked away slowly and Hidalgo chose to follow, shadowing him. He went towards the area of the worst destruction and helped where he could, searching through piles of rubble for anything that was not now trash. He pulled a large table from a pile of broken boards and an old man thanked him. The old man had no house left, just a table, and yet he'd thanked Frank as if he'd saved his life. Miserably, Frank stepped back, letting others take over again as he walked further from the heart of the destruction.

The houses at the far end of town had survived – just two of them, one on either side of the street. One looked untouched, pots of geraniums still bright on the porch and not even a broken window.

The other, grander, a real two-storey place decked out with fancy wood carving and white paint, looked slightly wrong, crooked maybe, as if it had been shifted an inch or two out of true. Dangerous, that. He wondered whether he ought to check it out further, or maybe warn someone, when he saw a woman emerge from the front door, one hand occupied, holding onto a child of about four, and a heavy valise in the other. It dragged her to one side and she set it down quickly.

Frank stepped up to her quickly and offered to help, but a quick, "No, thank you," reminded him he was sporting a couple of black eyes and a day's growth of beard, not to mention the fact that his clothes still clung to him. She was right not to trust him. But when she made to go back in, he couldn't resist trying to stop her.

"Ma'am – it ain't safe in there. Look, the house, it's moved on the foundations."

"I know that! But I can't leave all baby's things in there! I need to look after the children now. And John is busy enough, trying to get our papers sorted out."

Frank found he'd opened some kind of floodgate, as she forgot her fear of him and grabbed his sleeve, telling him they would be leaving town and couldn't leave their valuables in the house for anyone to rob. She was nearly hysterical, and the child at her side was beginning to cry, pulling at her tightly held hand.

Then Frank realised she had said something about a baby, and sure enough, lying in a beautiful cradle right there in the front yard was a baby, right in the full sun. If the house decided it didn't like its new position it could fall right on that cradle and that would be the end of a life.

Frank pulled himself together as best he could, picked up the valise and encouraged the woman to follow him at least across the street. He left her with one child and went back for the other, picking up the cradle and glancing at the child, who was already looking pink and unhappy, and took it over to her. He set the baby in the shade of the building. She was still talking to him.

"John, my husband – you will help him, won't you? Perhaps you could just get a few more of our things, and bring them here? Susie, she hasn't any other clothes to wear but – I couldn't get up the stairs, John wouldn't let me, and …" She suddenly ran out of breath, and sat down abruptly, dragging the little girl down with her. "What will we do now?" she asked, eyes large and very blue. She was young, in her twenties, and Frank found he wanted very much to help her.

"I'll do what I can, ma'am. But that house is dangerous. I'll try to get your husband out of there."

He strode back across the street, aware that one or two people were wandering down the street in their direction. He would soon have an audience but he didn't want to give them a show. He just wanted to get the man out of his house and then go on his way.

He wrenched the front door open, aware that only a few minutes ago the woman had had no difficulty with it. Inside, it was a shadowy, creaking arrangement of leaning walls and jammed doors. He heard someone moving upstairs and stepped quickly up that way, his feet telling him the treads weren't right, too narrow, or not straight or something. He stumbled half up but grabbed the banister.

"Mister! Your house ain't going to stand much longer! You'd better get on out of here!" he shouted, trying to imagine what was keeping the man. No papers could be that important, to lose your life for them.

A man appeared at the top of the stairs, his arms full of a seemingly random assortment of things, clothes, papers, even a glass ornament in one hand.

"Get out, then! I didn't ask for any help! Or just grab what you can and come back for more. The house'll stand until I get what I need." The man came down the stairs, pushing past Frank in his haste. Frank followed him down, hearing one loud crack before the place begin to slip sideways more rapidly, walls tilting, pictures hanging crazily, and their escape route closing off as if the man's boast about the place had triggered its collapse.

Dust fogged the air and made Frank's eyes swim but he followed the man as best he could, shouting at him to drop his belongings and run for it, but the man was hunched over his goods and wouldn't part with them. Frank pushed him forward, down the narrowing corridor and they reached the front door, the woman's husband first. Frank saw him stagger out onto the porch and drop what he was carrying. He was out, though the front wall was slipping in his direction, and Frank shouted again to get him moving.

Frank had his hands out, trying to fend off the wall which was coming his way, but his feet tangled in something lying on the floor and he fell. He covered his head with his hands, wondered for a moment if this was going to be it, then the place fell about him and he lost his hold on the world for a while.

When he came back to himself, he wondered first how he'd managed to survive. He couldn't see, but he could hear people close by. He coughed, and tried to move but he was pinned and he couldn't see enough to tell what it was that was keeping him there. He didn't have time to do anything about it, for suddenly his arms had been grabbed and he was being pulled right out of the house, though the dust and the broken wood, and he felt like the luckiest man on earth. When they'd done with pulling him, people were standing round him, and poking and prodding at him to see if he had any hurts. He felt just fine, though he had a strange taste in his mouth and he was a bit numb. He was alive and that was pretty good.

"Mister? Mister? You okay?"

Someone was shaking his shoulder. He tried to open his eyes but they seemed to be full of something. They were shouting for water then someone was quite gently running water over his face. His eyesight slowly cleared.

He coughed again, and a cup of water was put to his lips. He took a mouthful, swilled it round and spat it out. He swallowed the second mouthful, then nodded his thanks and tried to sit up.

"Mister – how'd you live through that?" asked one man, kneeling at his side and helping him.

The house had gone sideways, folding like a house of cards, quite neatly – roof and floor now just layers in a pile of lumber. But by the front door there was a distinct triangular cave, about three feet high, where something had kept a wall away from the floor.

"Luck, I guess." Frank offered, grinning and looking round at the faces of the crowd. "The guy who owned the place- he all right?"

"I am, sir. Wouldn't be, if it weren't for you. I have to say it. I owe you my life." The man, looking as dusty and shaken as Frank felt, shook his hand.

A real live hero. He was truly a real live hero. He tried to make himself presentable, running a hand through his hair. Then he tried to stand. But that was one step too far for the hero, who groaned, gritted his teeth and then fell back into the man's arms, remembering all too clearly why he had had to push the man out of the house. Papers. He was hurting on account of a pile of papers. He closed his eyes and wished they would all go away.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: The character do not belong to me. I make no money from writing this.

Viggomaniac: I apologise – I forgot to answer your question. I love "Lord of the Rings" and know the books well, but Aragorn from the movie doesn't speak to me in the same way that Frank does. I can't account for that – Viggo plays them both, and I think he's pretty special – but there it is. I am reading lots of LOTR fic, though, so perhaps he will one of these days.

They wouldn't leave Frank there on the sidewalk, though he insisted he was okay. He stood and then leaned on some kind soul, feeling a bit light headed and wondering why his leg was sore.

"Mister? You need the doc?"

"Huh?"

A little man was dodging in front of him, apparently trying to get him to stop walking. It wasn't difficult – Frank had little idea why he was walking and where he was going, anyway.

"You're Frank Hopkins, aren't you? Smithers – The Daily Chronicle. I was writing an article about your performance last night and here you are, saving folks from houses! Make a great headline! But your leg looks like it needs a doc."

Frank looked down, his head full of worrying images of himself in a headline, or worse, a photograph of him with his arm round the idiot who had nearly got himself killed, grinning his heroism into everyone's front parlour. One pants leg looked okay. The other had a rip in it and seemed dark and shiny. Blood. He vaguely remembered a sharp pain there as he'd been dragged from under the fallen wall.

For a moment he wondered what a young woman he'd nearly set up home with would have said about him being hurt again. It wasn't something he'd meant to happen, he'd have told her.

"Yeah," he said, pulling ineffectually at his pants leg. "Maybe it's got a chunk of wood in it."

So he was guided down the street, back to the saloon where he'd left Phoebe Ann, though she wasn't around when he got there. The doc was busy with other patients and Frank waited his turn, thinking about nothing in particular and trying to answer the journalist's questions at the same time. He was feeling groggy by the time the doctor finally got to him, and wondered if maybe putting some sort of bandage on his leg might have been a good idea.

They got him on the floor but he didn't pass out. The world was out of focus for a few minutes, and his head buzzed but he was aware that they were carrying him somewhere, maybe a back room, then were cutting off the leg of his good pants. He tried to protest but there was someone holding him down.

Then the doctor was speaking to him.

"There's a chunk of wood in your leg, Mr.Hopkins. I need to take it out but it's going to bleed pretty badly when I do. Don't you worry, though, I can stop that. If I don't take it out it'll become infected and then where will we be? Do you want to wait while I get some anaesthetic organised? It shouldn't take too long."

Frank had no idea what to say. He didn't want to have to stand the pain but he didn't want to bleed to death either. Why was it suddenly his decision?

"Do what you want, doc. Just get it done!" Frank managed to focus on the man's face. He wondered how he would pay him, and whether the man should be off treating people who were really sick. Then the operation began and Frank didn't have a chance to think about anything else, just an unbearable hotness in his calf. He tried to arch away from it but he was being held too firmly.

Afterwards, he thought wistfully of dying quietly of a nice simple infection. He couldn't move anything without a searing pain in his leg. And they hadn't even sewn him up yet – they were letting him rest for a few minutes before they started on that. He groaned and wondered if he was going to disgrace himself and refuse to let them do the stitches. The doctor was moving around, humming to himself, no doubt thinking of all the fees he would be collecting that week.

"Just a few minutes, Mr. Hopkins. Then someone'll take you in for a couple of days, I'm sure. We're really a very hospitable little town, you know."

"You are?" He couldn't say he'd noticed, but then, perhaps he hadn't given them much of a chance.

"Yes, indeed. The people who have been fortunate will take in another family until we get everything rebuilt." He really was insufferably happy, this doctor.

"You own the general store too, sir?" Frank asked, in a moment of levity. He tried to sit up a little more but that wasn't a good plan.

"Ha! You think I'm making my fortune here, don't you, Mr. Hopkins. Well, I suppose some will be doing that. We had no deaths, you know. Not one. Quite a few injuries, but no deaths. I don't know about your show, though. Right, I think we can see about these stitches."

He endured the procedure somehow. Overcome by a great tiredness, he lay and tried not to shift around while the wound throbbed. He vaguely remembered that some hapless family was going to have to take him in. He drifted off to sleep wondering how that was going to work out.

It was late evening when he woke again with a sour taste in his mouth and an urgent need for the outhouse. He was lying where he had been before – some kind out of storeroom, probably, and he was on the floor with a blanket covering him. He pushed up with his elbows, waited until his head cleared and then called out for someone, anyone, to come and give him a hand.

The door, partly open before and letting in a hum of human voices, was pushed open wide and a large, cheerful boy, about fourteen maybe, stood there.

"Yes, Mr. Hopkins? What can I do to help you?"

Frank explained, and matters were sorted out quite comfortably and, thank heaven, without a female presence. He was given some water to drink but he was longing for something stronger. A few dry crackers served to take the edge off his appetite.

Jimmy, the fourteen-year-old, sat himself down cross-legged and helped himself to one of the crackers he'd brought for Frank. "Pa and me," he explained, "and my brother Jake, we're taking you in. Pa owns the livery stable, and he's a fine blacksmith, too. Jake looks after the horses – he's got his certification and everything."

Pride in his family shone from the boy, and Frank liked him immediately. His spirits lifted suddenly, for the first time in months, and it was a heady feeling. He smiled.

"What about you? Where do you fit in?" he asked, quietly.

"Oh, I do pretty much anything Pa tells me to do. Well, mostly. I love the horses and I want to go to work on one of the ranches. Ain't room in the business for Jake and me, so I need to find myself another occupation."

"You still in school?"

"Sure! I wanna know how to figure out and stuff. Gotta be a good businessman, that's what Pa says. What about you? You're with the show, that right? Or you still doing them long distance races Pa says you did with your horse?"

Before Frank could begin on an answer to the increasing flow of questions, a large, blond-haired man appeared in the doorway. He was so startlingly like his son, Frank had to check between the two for a moment. The large man laughed, loudly.

"We look alike, huh? This one is all mine. You tiring the gentleman, boy?" He came over to his son and ruffled his hair, provoking a muffled, "Pa!" and a skither out of the way from Jimmy.

"My name's Sam – Sam Way. I guess you heard you're staying with us for a couple of days."

He held out his hand and Frank grasped it. The firm grip inspired confidence, and Frank's hopes rose a little further.

"You'll have to rough it. I don't have a wife no more to fuss over you. But we eat well and the place is clean. And we have a stall for your horse, if you want it. No charge."

"I can't let you …" Frank began, suddenly overwhelmed by the blacksmith's generosity.

"You say another word about that and I'll give you to the Johnson family. They have three children under six – and Mrs. Johnson looks after them like a broody hen." Mr. Way grinned, point made. Then he made a small concession to Frank's pride. "When you're on your feet again, I guess you could give us some advice about horses. You come with a fine reputation for knowing good horse flesh, Mr. Hopkins."

"Frank, just call me Frank." There was a moment's pause, then Jimmy stood up.

"Shall I fetch Jake, Pa? We could move Mr. Hopkins now and he'd be away from all these people."

Mr. Way nodded. "Yes, Jimmy, that's a fine idea. You'll be wanting some rest tonight, and you can't in this hornets' nest. Our reporter's asking for another interview with you. He says he has enough for one article but he wants more. Says you're a celebrity." Sam stood aside to let his son slip out of the room.

Frank grimaced. "Just what I need, articles with next to no truth in them, 'bout things I haven't done and never intend doin'. I'd be real grateful if you'd keep him away, if it's no trouble."

"Trouble? No, it's no trouble. I don't like the little weasel much. Now, here's Jake. Lift that stretcher, boys, let's get Mr. Hopkins – Frank, sorry, lad – away out of here."

Jake had appeared at the door, smiling like the rest of the family but in every other way different. Small, thin, pale, and dark-haired, he had a look about him that Frank recognised. Health not too good. But bright-eyed still, and kind-faced and open. Good with horses, Frank remembered, and warmed to the third member of the family.

They picked him up and bore him on his stretcher through the canteen like a wounded soldier. Everyone cheered him and toasted him, and he was offered a drink, which he declined. He tried to look like he did when he took the applause of the crowd but his make-up was missing and he felt he was disappointing them. Yet it was better for him to slip quickly back into the crowd and he was glad when he was taken out into the fresh air and along the street to the livery stable. They moved at a good pace, the family talking among themselves, and Frank was left to feel mildly silly lying on his back, when he could perfectly well have walked. With a little assistance, anyway. Who was he kidding? He was stuck in a strange town, his horse who knew where, in the hands of the blacksmith and his two sons. The elation that he had felt began to evaporate in the darkness of the evening.

Yet when they reached the stable, with its familiar smells of horses, Frank let himself relax again. There were far worse places to be than here, with someone to care for him, and the chance to rest up for a while. Far worse places.

They settled him in Jimmy's room. It was snug, with two beds in there, but it was a sensible arrangement and Frank appreciated the thought. He was going to be taken care of for a while. Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing.

He was worried for a while that the thirst he had would make him a bad guest. But Mr. Way seemed to understand, and brought him a small glass of whisky.

"Against doctor's orders. But sometimes, a man needs something that's against orders. You ready for a visitor, Frank? Someone's been waiting in the kitchen talking to Jake for a few minutes."

"Do I need to be decent?" Frank enquired. He'd been stripped of his ruined pants and shirt.

"Yes. It's that lady, the one who does the fancy shooting." Mr. Way had barely mentioned her when she appeared at the door. She was half the man's size and twice his personality.

"Frank," she said, the averted her eyes as Frank hauled a blanket over himself. "Sorry to see you laid up like this. Heard you did good, though. Mr. Way, I believe a cup of coffee would go down well."

The blacksmith nodded and left them together.

"We're leaving tomorrow, Hop. Get back on the train, pull ourselves together, head for the next showground. Cody sent this." She handed Frank an envelope. Inside were more dollars than Frank had seen in a while. "Don't go spending it all at the saloon," she said, smiling.

"Is he paying me off?" Frank asked, looking up at her. His palms were sweating.

"I don't think so. He said, you should take a month or so, join us again then. You won't be riding for a while anyway. Have a holiday, Hop. You earned it." She reached out and grasped his hand. "Just give the booze a miss."

Frank was panicking. He couldn't stay there. How would he survive without the show – without the people who knew – who understood him. Who tolerated him, whatever he did. He knew Phoebe Ann could read him like a book, so he looked back at the money in his hand. He didn't know what to say to make her or Cody change their minds about him.

"Phoebe Ann," he choked out. "You can't leave me here. I have a show to do."

She stood away from him. "Just a month, Hop. I'll make sure Cody lets you back in the show. You get yourself all healed up."

She turned to leave. Frank could hardly breathe. Then she was gone.

But by the time Mr. Way came back in, Frank had gathered himself again, and had put aside his fears. He could endure. They were good people. Maybe he could even get himself back on the right track again.

Just before he slipped into sleep that night, with the boy's quiet, steady breathing only a few feet away, he sent up a prayer to his ancestors. Peace. For just a while, peace, for himself, for the little bit of the world he inhabited. Peace.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: As ever, only one or two of the characters are mine. I make no money from this writing.

(Apologies for the delay. I had to re-think this chapter, then a small boy wandered in and started telling me this long rambling story. Which I shall try to continue soon.)

Something woke him, to a place and a time he could not grasp immediately. He opened his eyes and remembered. The stable. The Way family. He was laid up here for a couple of days, and he had prayed for peace. Someone hadn't heard because something had awoken him suddenly.

Sunlight cut a bright bar across his legs, but apart from that the hot room was shadowy. He pulled himself upright, pulling on muscles that were sore and tired, then swung his legs out from under the sheet. One was bandaged from knee to mid-calf and he remembered the operation to take out the wood and sew him back together. He felt his forehead. Cool. He was going to be fine.

He smelt coffee and gingerly took his weight on both legs, only to find he was too unsteady to get anywhere under his own steam. But there, just in reach, was a crutch, so on stockinged feet and still in his nightshirt, he hopped awkwardly out of the room and straight into the living space.

"Morning, Mr.Hopkins," said Jimmy, who was frying something at the stove. Smelled good, too.

"Jimmy. You still having breakfast here?"

"Making it for you. I knew you'd wake up soon as we got those fool horses in the corral."

"You did? What fool horses?"

"They got scattered from here to the horizon yesterday. My brother's rounding them up and tending them if they need it. Some horses from town, some from your show, I reckon. Maybe you'd like to watch him work with them then," Jimmy said, putting a plate of bacon and biscuits, and a good strong cup of coffee on the table. The pride in his brother was a pleasure to see.

Frank sat down and began to eat, feeling better with each mouthful.

"I gotta go help Jake now, sir. He's found four horses so far and I reckon there's gonna be more before midday."

"Sure, son. You go ahead. I'll just finish this then see if I can help out. I know a couple of things about horses myself."

There was something he was not getting, something important he had not thought to ask, but the meal was good and the coffee better, so he concentrated on that and on thanking whoever needed thanking for the fact that he was in reasonable health that morning.

He was just putting his washed plate on the drainer when he heard the squeal of a frightened horse. He made his way over to the window and looked out over the working part of the livery, where two small corrals lay in the deep morning shadows. They were both alive with horseflesh, animals milling and unhappy. Jake was driving three more into the further corral, Jimmy helping by holding the gate and waving his hat to keep them moving. Even through the dirty window, Frank could see they had a whole world of trouble brewing if they didn't know what they were doing.

He hurried to dress in the old shirt and a pair of dungarees that were clearly Sam's and made him look like a scarecrow. Grimacing at the way the material flapped round him, he found some string and cinched it round his waist. He didn't care what he looked like but he'd need new clothes so that he could work with the horses more easily. Problems came when he tried to pull on his boots. He had to leave the stitched leg unbooted. He couldn't touch it to the floor anyhow.

Gettting the feel of the crutch slowly, he eased himself down two steep steps to the ground and immediately began to run his eye over the sweating horses.

They were in a sorry state, most of them, dirty, cut and ill-at-ease. One or two were downright miserable and in the first corral he saw one limping so badly he wanted to get it out of the crush of other horses before it was further injured.

Jake gave him a cheery wave and jumped down from the horse he was riding. Frank realised with a start that the young man had been on Hidalgo's back.

"Hey there, Mr.Hopkins. I hope you don't mind about me riding your horse!" Jake shouted, clearly excited by the movement around him. "He's a fine animal! Saw him doing those tricks like a real fancy horse but he can go right on however long you want him to!"

"I don't mind if he don't!" Frank shouted back. "He'll buck off anyone he doesn't like!"

Jake walked over to him, trailing Hidalgo behind him.

"Hey, Little Brother," Frank said softly. "You find yourself a new rider?"

Hidalgo came to him and nuzzled his hand. A great sense of well-being took Frank by surprise and he smiled at the two happy boys.

"You need any help there? You got, what, nine horses now. You done well," he said, and the two boys grinned back.

"Thanks, Mr.Hopkins. Maybe you could see which ones I need to tend first? Point them out, maybe?" Jake said, shading his eyes against the sun which was just beginning to show over the livery stable roof. "Then Jimmy can bring them into the stable and I can treat them."

"Sure thing," Frank said, easing the crutch into his armpit and hobbling over to the corral fence. Look them over he did, then got Jake to rope each one separately and walk, then trot them back and forwards a couple of times. It wasn't an easy job but the boys managed it between them, even with the horses nervous and edgy.

Frank paid special attention to a black that was lame in his near hind leg, a slight twisting of his gait giving the soreness away. He ran a calming hand down his leg and felt the burn of strained tendons and muscles there.

"Take this one through to the stable, boys. I'll work some liniment into that in a minute or so."

When they came back, he was studying the last horse in the corral which stood, head down, misery in its stillness. He had tied Hidalgo to the fence and his horse was studying the other horses too, interested in their movements and nickering gently to them.

"They talking to you, or you talking to them?" Frank asked, looking at Hidalgo with a grin. "What about the brown? You think she's too sick to mend?"

Hidalgo made no comment.

"I'll go round and look at the brown," he called to Jake, who was filling up the water trough. Jake nodded and sent Jimmy for some feed for the horses, which had quietened down at last. Frank hopped slowly round the outside of the corral, well aware that he was in no fit state to be mixing with horses in the corral itself.

"Ho, there, Brownie. Ho there," he soothed, looking at the miserable animal. "How'd you get this far in a state like that?" He could see the damage the animal had sustained, a huge gash in her chest and three great tears across her front legs.

Something in her eyes told him she had given up. There was only one thing he could do.

"Jake," he called. "This one needs us to help on her way." He reached across and tried to get her to come and have her nose scratched but she couldn't even do that. His heart went out to her but this was no time for sentiment.

Jake came to stand next to him. "Maybe if we sutured her she could make it?" Jake asked. The young man's hope was touching but misplaced.

"No," Frank said kindly. "We need to move her away from here if we can. It'll be hard on her but better for the others."

He got her going with some soft words and treats Jake passed him, and they made their way to the back of the livery and out a little way into the pasture.

It was all done efficiently but in the end, Frank gave way to the boys' sad looks and checked her over once more. He stood with his hand on her shoulder, propping himself carefully.

"Boys. I don't mind doing this but Jake, you have to watch how it's done. She's sufferin' enough. I can stop that if I do this just right."

Jake nodded, and handed Frank the gun.

"Go on, Jimmy," Frank said. "There's enough of us here. Give her some dignity." He wanted the boy out of there. It was not something he wanted the boy to have to see.

Jimmy trudged away, dragging his feet.

"All right now, girl, let's see what we can do for you. Get you on your way to peace, shall we?" He positioned the gun just so. "Won't take but a minute and then you'll be running free."

And just at that critical moment, a cheery shout made him take his finger off the trigger.

"Mr.Hopkins! Ah! I see you're dealing with a horse! Shall I wait here for you to finish?" It was Smithers, in his neat suit, pad and pencil at the ready.

Frank swore quietly, repositioned the gun and pulled the trigger, burying his feelings as deeply as he could. He had never wanted to put another horse down, not after the last time, but life and death went on, whatever he did or didn't want. He felt vaguely sick, with tremulous feelings inside he thought he had banished to the bottom of a bottle.

He and Jake looked at one another as Smithers watched.

"You goin' to talk to him?" Jake asked.

"I suppose I could try tellin' him the truth," Frank said, screwing up his eyes against the sun. "You goin' to bury her now?"

"Me and Pa'll get to it later," Jake said. "I'll get on with the other horses. Still some to check over."

"Well he ain't more important than them, that's for sure." Frank set off back to the corral, ignoring Smithers, but the man joined them anyway.

"Just a few minutes of your time, Mr.Hopkins. If I can get the county paper interested, so many more readers will be able to enjoy the story of your stay with us."

"Hero saves prominent local citizen?" Frank asked. "Is that the headline you had planned? You'll have to excuse me. I have horses that need my attention."

The man walked in front of him, making Frank stop suddenly. "I can write a story without your help, Hopkins. I just thought you might like to clarify your position."

"Go on back, Jake. I'll come and help you, soon as me and this gentleman here have sorted out a couple of things." Frank wasn't sure how far he could trust himself with Smithers. Not so long ago he'd have flipped that coin up in the air and landed a neat punch to the man's chin. The easy self-confidence needed for a trick like that seemed to have deserted him.

Jake left him with the man. Frank leaned on his crutch and said nothing.

"Would you care for a cup of coffee, Mr.Hopkins?" Smithers ventured, easing the collar of his shirt. It was beginning to be very hot.

"I don't think so, thanks. Now, what did you want to ask me?"

"I want to write an article on the real Wounded Knee. Buffalo Bill has a way of making it seem exciting for the customers but I've never heard the story from someone who was there." The man actually licked his pencil, ready to take down Frank's answer.

"I wasn't there," Frank said bluntly. "Least, I wasn't there when it happened. I was there just after the slaughter."

"Slaughter?" said Smithers, writing diligently. "Yes, go on."

"Mister – you really want the truth?"

"Oh yes, certainly. But please, let's move into the shade. You must be very uncomfortable."

So they moved into the shelter of the barn and Frank told him the true story of Wounded Knee, what he saw of it, and told it slowly and truthfully, so the man could write it all down. Then he got Smithers to tell it all back to him, just to be sure.

Finally, he leant back again the warm timbers of the stable. "You ain't gonna print it though, are you?" he said.

There was a pause before Smithers answered. "You know it would cause trouble for you if I did?"

"Yeah, I know. Army told me to keep quiet. Now Bill tells this story a whole lot different and no one's putting him straight. Not even me."

Frank knew the man had some power over him now. But he wouldn't use it. He might print some version of the truth but that was no good. The truth of it would have to stay buried a while longer, until people no longer saw Red Savages as less than human. Maybe in his lifetime. Maybe not.

"I'll leave you to your horses, Mr.Hopkins. And your memories. I'll find another angle on the story."

"Thanks," Frank said, grateful the man was, after all, human. They exchanged a friendly shake of the hand and he went back to work with the boys and the horses.

The next day, Sam brought the local newspaper and put it down in front of Frank, who was sitting at the table having another good breakfast.

"Illustrious Visitor Tames the Savage Indian at Wounded Knee!" the headline proclaimed.

Frank read the first three sentences of the article, grabbed his crutch and was out of the door before he'd drunk his coffee.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: Some of the characters are mine but the most important ones are not. I make no money from this writing.

The crutch slowed Frank considerably, which was probably just as well. By the time he reached Smithers' office, his angry thoughts had distilled into one word.

"Trust," he said. Leaning on the door jamb and looking Smithers in the eye. "Gave you a good measure of trust yesterday. Don't seem like I gave it to the right person."

"Good morning, Mr.Hopkins," Smithers said, seemingly not put out at all by Frank's greeting. "I see you've read my little article."

"I did. Feel like I was lucky to get here without being patted on the back and told the only good Indian is a dead one." Frank pulled up a chair to Smithers' big desk and sat down carefully.

"Said I'd put a slant on the story, Hopkins. Took the lead from the show you did. Thought you'd appreciate the promotion." Smithers leaned back, smiling slightly as if he'd bested Frank and there was no more to be said on the matter.

Frank sighed. He could see how Smithers might think that of him but he was wrong, dead wrong.

"You see the show, then?" Frank asked, laying the crutch down on the floor then leaning back, to look as relaxed as he could.

"Yes, Frank, I saw it. Fine show, fine show. Would've reviewed it too, if that tornado hadn't ripped things apart."

"You see me in the show?" Frank asked casually, though the way Smithers was using his given name got under his skin.

"On that pretty horse? What's it called? Something Mexican, I believe?"

"Hidalgo. That's his name. Now, when you saw Hidalgo and me, were we fighting at Wounded Knee?"

Smithers' answer came back too quickly, as if he'd been rehearsing them. "No. I don't believe I did, Frank. But I don't see what difference it makes. It was a good piece of journalism and I am pretty sure Johnson will be down from the state capital to pick up on it."

"You think so?" Frank asked. "You think I'm that important?"

Smithers shifted in his seat and reached for a copy of the paper. He looked at the article as if considering Frank's point.

"Yes. I think you're that newsworthy. But only as the hero of our little town's disaster."

"Hero? You want me to be a hero to help you escape this one-horse town, is that it?"

"No, no, not at all," Smithers said hastily. "You want a cup of coffee, Frank?"

"I don't believe I will. I think I'll be getting along now." Frank reached for his crutch.

He'd had a small space of relief with the Way family, a little time to breathe. Maybe if he just drifted slowly on to the next town he'd be left alone.

"Frank. Mr. Hopkins." Something in Smithers' tone made Frank look at him once more. "I wish you'd stay a while. That's a good family you're with. They could do with your help."

And I could do with theirs, Frank thought.

"If anyone at state level picks up the story, they won't be here for a day or two. Maybe you could stay that long, give them some sort of story?"

Frank narrowed his eyes and looked at the reporter more closely. Had anger clouded his judgement of the man? He usually trusted his instincts but maybe, with everything that had happened, he just hadn't been looking at the man right.

"You mean, maybe I could spin a couple of stories for him?"

"Yes. Something like that. Wouldn't have to be about Wounded Knee. You did save a man's life. Even if it was by accident."

Frank tried to make up his mind but he felt far from any sort of certainty about anything. Still, a couple of days. He could really do with a couple of days, if only the townsfolk could be persuaded not to see him as the hero of the hour.

"I could circulate a rumour for you," Smithers offered. "It'd be in my interest to keep you here. Perhaps your leg is worse than we thought?"

It was enough of an excuse. He didn't want to leave, and maybe it was the belief that he would have to that had made him angry in the first place. That and the fact that Smithers had chosen that one so-called battle. If it had been Little Bighorn, now.

"I believe you're right, Mr.Smithers. I believe my leg is paining me more than I thought. Perhaps I ought to go back to the stable in a buggy. Don't seem hardly possible I could walk."

Once the decision was made, there was some entertainment to be had out of the proceedings, with curious people looking and pointing as he, sweating and groaning just enough to be convincing, was taken back to the stables.

Jake greeted him when he was driven to the door.

"Mr.Hopkins? You all right?" he said, giving a horse over to his brother to manage.

There were people beginning to gather, so Smithers helped Frank indoors, with Jake following close on their heels. Frank sat at the kitchen table, giving Mr.Way a nod in greeting.

"Thank you kindly, Mr.Smithers," he said, drawing up a chair for his leg. "I'll be speaking to you again in a couple of days?"

"You will, Mr.Hopkins."

"Frank."

"Frank. Yes. I'll go spread the word. I don't guarantee I can keep away the ladies, though. A wounded soldier always draws the feminine heart, you know."

"I reckon I could eat some pie. What about you, Jake?"

Jake seemed puzzled for a moment, then looked to his father for guidance.

Mr.Way observed Frank closely for a moment then laughed aloud. "Townsfolk got you running scared, have they, Frank? You reckon on holing up here for a while?"

"That's about the size of it. Though if some ladies come calling, perhaps I might be roused from my bed to see if I can't have some polite conversation." Frank grinned. It had been too long since he spent time exercising his sense of humour, and a little joshing with the boys was exactly what he needed.

"Well, the Misses Peabody will be baking a peach pie within the hour, you can bet on that. And Grandma Petersen – but her apple pie is second to none in the state, and she talks sense, too. An hour in her company's worth a week in most other people's. But don't cross Mrs.Agnew. She's a bitter tongue in her head. She'll know all about you already."

"Hold on, hold on! If all these ladies come callin' I won't have time to help Jake with the stock, now will I? I am countin' on you to keep this flood in check."

"I'll do my best," Smithers said, smiling broadly and leaving the room. Frank watched him through the window. He went to the three or four people who gathered there and was soon busily engaged in giving them the benefit of his knowledge.

Mr.Way was still laughing quietly as he went to get some coffee. "You want some, Frank?" he asked, holding up the pot. "Fresh made."

"Sure," Frank said. He was comfortable, well fed and half-way happy, and it was more than he had a right to be, after all that time with the bottle and bad humour. In his head, the small voice which had nagged and nagged that he didn't deserve any sort of life after – after what had happened to her, faded into the background for the first time. Like dulled toothache, it didn't let him be but it was manageable from his own resources.

He sat in the kitchen door and watched Jake and Jimmy manage the horses for most of the morning, while Mr.Way went on with his work in the forge. He shouted a few instructions out but was disinclined to move, knowing his leg would heal the faster for the rest. But he had a couple of days in hand before he needed attend to Smithers again and he sat in part sunlight thinking of nothing in particular.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. He knew who it was. He was not a superstitious man by nature, but he accepted some things as natural that rationalists would have explained away. She was there. In his head, he heard her say, "I'm happy, Frank. You're going to be all right."

Such mundane words. Nothing about where she was, or that they'd meet again, or love, or any such. Just those words. That's how he knew it was her.

She was gone a moment later but he was filled with joy and wonder, not with longing for her. The little voice had been snuffed out. The tears ran down his cheeks but he was not weeping from loss but from release. He did nothing to stop them but let them run, his breath catching but nothing else giving his emotion away. The boys were too far away to see him so he allowed himself the simple relief of his emotions.

His blurred vision masked the quiet approach of an old woman.

"Mr.Hopkins?" she said, and when he blinked and then rubbed his eyes, he saw a neat, smiling woman, probably in her seventies. She had a stick in one hand and a basket in the other. She couldn't have missed his tears but she said nothing about it.

"Yes, Ma'am. Here, let me help you with that."

"It's quite all right. Let me come into the kitchen. It's midday. I brought you some pie. You're too thin, Mr.Hopkins, too thin for a healthy man."

"Mrs.Petersen?" It had to be her, he reasoned, reaching for his crutch.

"That's me, son. No, you stay there. You need your rest." There was some movement behind him then a plate with a large piece of pie on it was handed to him. A chair scraped across the kitchen floor then she sat next to him, her own piece of pie held in her hand.

"If I don't eat this now, the blacksmith won't leave me a piece and if I say so myself, this is awful good pie."

Frank took a bite. It was fragrant, full of the taste of fresh butter, of just enough sugar to bring out the taste of the apple. It melted in his mouth, lingered, and was gone.

"This is the best pie I have ever tasted, ma'am."

"Why, thank you kindly, Mr.Hopkins. We'll have you back on your feet in no time flat. Now, you want to tell an old lady what's brought you to this state of health?" She smiled and took a bite of the pie. "Just warm enough," she said. "Just the right amount of sugar. I thought perhaps I hadn't put enough but it'll do."

Frank wanted to talk about the state of his health very much, suddenly, in the way that one does with a stranger who will listen. So he sketched in what he could bear to say, though he still couldn't bring himself to say Lilian's name. He was on easier ground telling her about the house collapse and the splinter in his leg but he had a feeling the old woman had guessed a good deal more.

"You must let me give you some of my salve. It's a sovereign cure and it'll keep infection away from the cut. And I have some tonic. You lost a lot of blood, I heard."

"I don't know," Frank said honestly. "I don't think I was really there when it all happened. I don't think I've been around much recently, if you take my meaning." Another bite. Another small piece of heaven.

"I do. Well, this world wants you here in it, Mr.Hopkins, and we will do our best to make sure you stay awhile. You ever need someone to talk to, fill in a few of those holes in that story of yours, you give me a holler. Ain't much in this life I haven't seen or heard about, one way or another. Now, I am going to feed that eldest Way boy. He needs my help too, I reckon."

With that, the old woman stood and returned to the kitchen table. She cut another slice of the pie and Frank for a moment had hoped it was for him but she poured some buttermilk into a glass and walked down the steps and across to where Jake was standing. Frank watched as the young man was directed to wash his hands and then sit down to eat, while Jimmy was sent back to the house.

She hadn't given him any sympathy. She had just listened and prompted from time to time. But just she sheer act of telling someone something of what had happened had eased his heart more than he could ever have thought. Here was the start he needed to make. He would get better, as much as he could in the short time that he had, and he would repay the old woman's kindness somehow. He would repay the kindness of all the people around him. Somehow.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: Some of the characters are mine but the most important ones are not. I make no money from this writing.

He napped after lunch, a luxury he had not allowed himself when sober for a long while. Mid-afternoon, he woke, stretched and got himself back to the kitchen for coffee.

Outside, three or four horses drooped in the heat. The air was dense with humidity and thunder grumbled in the south-eastern sky. There were few sounds – a small bird chirping, then the gentle pad of a horse's hooves on the dust as Jake led him into the barn. Frank settled himself back in what was rapidly becoming his chair and began to ponder the future.

He needed a goal. A new one, to replace the one he'd had taken away from him. In the longer term, rejoining Wild Bill and Phoebe Ann was a certainty. But his idea of a couple of days was stretching to accommodate two weeks, maybe even three, if he could be accepted by the townsfolk. He had skills to offer, the skill in his hands and in his ability to entertain with a good story or with the tricks he had taught Hidalgo. So there had to be something he could do.

As he thought through his options, the thunder came closer, a huge black cloud boiling in and smothering the blue sky, and lightning felt its way to the ground. He stood, took up his crutch and began to make his way down the steps.

Mr.Way was standing in the door of the forge looking anxiously at the approaching storm.

"They say lightning never strikes twice in the same place," he said, wiping his forehead with the back of his sleeve. "But maybe we'd better get down into the storm cellar just the same. What do you think, Frank?"

"I think we're safe to watch it a few more minutes," Frank said. "If there's a twister, we'll know about it, I guess. You have them often?"

"Not so many, most years. Seems this is going to be a stormy week." Mr.Way leaned into the barn. "Jake! Leave them horses and get yourself into shelter. Looks like we might have to wait this one out again."

"All right, Pa. I'll get Jimmy."

Once the boys were down into the cellar, Frank watched the storm develop until huge spots of rain began to darken the ground and rattle on his hat. The wind had picked up but he'd seen nothing to worry him in the shape of the clouds. With luck, it was just a heavy rainstorm, soon over.

"Frank. I think I'll go keep the boys company. Jimmy's more of a worrier than he lets on, sometimes. You comin' now?"

"Yeah. I'll be there."

Mr.Way put out the forge fire and the kitchen fire as one of the few precautions that made any sense, then helped Frank down into the cool dark of the cellar. It was well made, deep, with good strong doors and it would be enough if there was another twister.

"All right, boys," Way said, settling himself down on an old stool. "Who's goin' to tell the first story?"

"I will, Pa," Jake said. "Shall I tell the one about the time we went to the river?"

"Sure. Go on, Jake."

So, while the rain rattled on the wooden door to the cellar, Frank listened to family stories, shared family jokes with a smile and, once, a good all-out laugh as Jake described Jimmy's first attempts to ride. Jimmy blushed and confessed he couldn't get the hang of trotting, no matter how hard he tried, and had come away with enough sore parts in his anatomy to make sitting down challenging for several days afterwards.

"Well, Frank – you know somethin' of my family now. How about you tell us something' about yourself?" Mr.Way said.

It wasn't difficult to pick a story from his store. He avoided his childhood, because he didn't know how the family would react to the idea that his mother had been an Indian, but he had some grand race stories.

"Once," he began, "I was up against this fancy dude. Keep himself real slick, he did, duds must have cost him a fortune."

Just as he was warming to his tale, the door crashed open and a furious wind drove them to one corner of the cellar. The air was thick with dirt and water and Frank was hard put to breathe for a moment or two. He sheltered Jimmy, holding him close and taking the wind on his back. It only lasted a few minutes but the noise and the strength of the wind had Jimmy whimpering and shaking.

Then it was over. Frank coughed and wiped his eyes, then began to look round as the light increased.

Mr.Way carefully made his way to the door, his face full of dread. He went up the steps, moving a piece of wood to clear the way. Frank grabbed his crutch and, with Jimmy's help, negotiated the floor of the cellar.

Mr.Way stood at the top of the stairs and Frank waited for the shock of what he saw to register. Instead, the man turned and grinned.

"Come on up, Frank. I declare, you must be some kind of good luck charm."

Frank hopped up the steps and looked around. He had been expecting destruction. Instead, the house was still standing, the barn was intact, the horses were still in the undamaged corral. His jaw dropped.

"Took some shingles off the barn, broke a couple of windows in the house, shifted some stuff around – that's it. Nothing else round here seems to have been hit, either. Looks like we had us the lightest twister known to man – just dusted us off some and left it at that." Way's relief was plain in his voice and his face.

There were people already appearing in the smithy, shouting for Way and his family, and he hurried to reassure them. Frank hoped he wasn't spreading rumours about this good luck charm idea of his. He didn't need any other complications in his life. But there was Smithers, notebook in hand, bustling over to get the story, and Frank could do nothing about it.

"Mr.Hopkins! It's a miracle! We're going to be famous – a town hit by two tornadoes in a week and not a soul lost! We must be the luckiest town in the state," Smithers said, approaching Frank and showing every sign of wanting to shake Frank by the hand. Frank held on to his crutch and the corral fence, so had no spare hand to shake.

"I wish you luck with that angle, Smithers. Sounds like a tall tale to me."

"State newspaper's bound to send one of its best men down now. Should be here tomorrow, if the train's running to schedule. Or the next day. And you can bet he'll want to meet you. Miracle Man Saves the Day Again! Yes, yes. Something like that."

Frank's joy in finding the place intact was rapidly evaporating in face of the man's enthusiasm. He grabbed Jimmy's arm and steered the two of them towards the barn, shouting over his shoulder, "Don't bother asking for an interview, Smithers. I'm sure you can fill in for me."

He walked hastily away, putting too much weight on his leg for comfort, then they were in the dark barn where the horses were just beginning to settle again. Jimmy helped him over to Hidalgo's stall.

"You need to keep away from that man," Jimmy said. "None of the decent folk round here like him. He's always printing lies and gossip, stirring up trouble and giving his opinion where it ain't needed."

"How does he make a livin', then? Who buys this rag he prints?"

Jimmy hung his head. "I guess most folks do, even if they don't much like what he prints. It's the only way there is to know the social events and the church notices and stuff like that. And he does print state news, too, when he gets it."

"Okay, boy, no need to be ashamed of buying it, then. Seems like it might be a good thing if he did move on to the capital, though. You have anyone round here who could step up and do a better job?"

Jimmy looked down at his boots. He mumbled something Frank did not catch. Frank was searching around for something to give Hidalgo as a treat.

"What was that, boy? Speak your mind, now."

"It's what I want to do, when I'm older."

"What kinda education you had, Jimmy?"

"I'm getting' on real well at school. I go every day it's on and I've finished this year top in my class." There was a fair amount of natural pride in the statement but not too much.

"Well, then. Seems like the town needs an alternative to this paper Smithers puts together. Maybe you could get some help to set up something of your own, just something small, while you learn the trade."

"I have a printing press," Jimmy said. "A small one. Pa found it once, on one of his trips out and he hauled it back here to the barn for me. Got one or two parts need replacing but I almost got it workin'. I was savin' up to get it fixed."

Frank gave the carrot he'd found to his horse, which blew softly into his hand before accepting the morsel delicately. "Maybe I'll ride you out tomorrow, Little Brother," Frank said, momentarily distracted from Jimmy's enthusiasm. "You'll be gettin' out of practice if I don't ride you soon."

"Here it is!" Jimmy shouted. Frank turned to him and saw that the boy was lifting the corner of a tarp. "See!"

"That's fine, Jimmy. Maybe, while I'm here, I can help you fix it. I'd like a way to pay you back for your hospitality."

The boy's face lit up and Frank smiled. Here was the goal, the project, the something he needed to do. He could do it while his leg mended, too. A newspaper. He could help Jimmy with that, for sure. They'd need more than a press – they'd need the cases of letters, paper, ink. But if Smithers was getting those things, stood to reason he could too.

By the end of the day, the two had discussed all aspects of the project. Frank had said over and over that it was something for the future but Jimmy was arguing they should start soon, before Frank pushed on. Jimmy went to bed still so excited it took a while to settle him down.

Mr.Way returned looking not quite as pleased as he might have done.

"Don't you go gettin' his hopes up too much, Frank. Someone else tried to set up in opposition to Smithers. Didn't last more than a month or so and lost a lot of money in the process. Don't go encouragin' him to believe he could be more successful than that man."

"I told him, told him straight as I could," Frank replied, feeling a little sorry he'd said anything. "But he was set on starting up tomorrow. Bright and early, I'll tell him again, make sure he understands that it could be a while before we could do anything. But I hated to pour too much cold water on his enthusiasm. Seems like, with Jake settled, the boy needs himself a goal."

"Yeah, yeah – I wouldn't say no different. And he always wanted it to be away from the forge, though I wished otherwise for a long time. It's just, I'd like to keep him out of any troubles there are in the town for a while longer, at least."

Frank nodded, hearing well what Mr.Way was saying to him. But already his mind had wandered. Had the rival newspaper man left his gear behind? Somewhere in town, was there enough equipment for Jimmy to make a start, perhaps with just one side of a free paper, with notices and a couple of advertisements to pay the costs?

Tomorrow, it would be top of his list to find out.


End file.
